Dying is tough
by NightViisions
Summary: BryanxTala story. Basically, it's about Tala and Bryan dealing with the fact that Tala is slowly dying from cancer, trying to make the best of a horrible situation (at least one of them). I suck at summaries, but please give it a shot! Warnings: sex, language.


**BryanxTala fanfic. I love the thought of them as a couple, and I've been waiting way to long to write something with them. Anyway, this is what I came up with. Basically, it's about Tala and Bryan dealing with the fact that Tala is slowly dying from cancer.  
>Warnings (for future chapters): Language and sex.<strong>

**Disclaimer: I do not own Beyblade.**

The walls seem different today. More colorful. Like there are a million shades of white, spread all over the walls. It is as if I can see every little shade, feel every little shade. What if I named them? What if I discovered a shade that wasn't shady enough to be called a shade, but instead a color? How revolutionary. The walls seem different everyday. Some days, they're more colorful, like today. And some days - well, some days they're just white. And some days they are burning flames, brought to you by a company called hell.  
>I can't really do anything, so I just spend my time watching the walls. It's not my fault, really - Bryan told me to not do anything exhausting while he was gone. And I'm not. I'm just killing the last time I have - spending it with staring on the walls. Exhausting? No. Painful? Yes.<br>My whole body hurts, and I can't really make up a single, sensible thought in my head. Since I can't think properly, I close my eyes and take a deep breath. Meditate. Meditate, they said. It will help ease the pain, they said. Meditate in my ass, I say.  
>The first real thought I form is a name: Bryan. After that: Call. Call. Bryan. That's the most reasonable thing to do. Pick up the phone, and call the person I live, eat, love, hate, cry, laugh with, and tell him that I need to go to the hospital. But I don't. Why? I can't.<br>The words "I can't" have a new meaning now. A few years ago, "I can't", meant that I literarily couldn't do something. I simply couldn't. Like taking a trip to the moon. I can't do that.  
>Today, "I can't" means: "I'm to lazy to do it", "I don't have the energy to do that", "I don't feel like it" or "I'm going to die, so what's the point?". Bryan hates that last one.<br>The pain is starting to get worse. I think I'm short of breath, but I don't know. Whenever I get a attack like this, I like to imagine that I'm simply flowing off somewhere, like I'm high or whatever. Not that I'm short of breath because the cancer is beating the shit out of my lungs.  
>Five more minutes, and I'm only going to be able to get a few words, if even that, out of my mouth. Better call Bryan.<br>One, two, three signals… Screw this, he's probably busy with more important stuff. I should just hang up and die.  
>"Hello?"<br>"I… I'm dying."  
>Those words have kind off became code red for me and Bryan. Whenever I'm having a attack, those are the words that automatically come out of my mouth. I don't know why, maybe it's cause it's making it easier for me to face the truth. It doesn't really make it easier for Bryan though.<br>"I'll be there directly"  
>He doesn't hang up. He never does. He claims it's because he wants to make sure that nothing happens to me on his way home, but I'm pretty sure it's because he wants to hear my amazing lungs breath. He's so jealous of them. Then again, who wouldn't be?<br>At this point, I can't really say anything. My breathing is incredibly loud, and god damn, I can just see Bryans jealous face before me. My eyes can't keep open much longer. They're just confused, they just want to close and go to sleep forever. But I can't let them do that. It would disappoint Bryan, and I'm not leaving this world with him disappointed at me.  
>I don't know how many minutes, or seconds, have passed, but eventually, I hear Bryan come in. My eyes flutter, and my mind is somewhere far away, so I can't really see him, or respond to whatever he's saying. All I can do is think off how the walls now somehow seem like hell.<p>

I'm drugged. I know I am. Sometimes, I expect to wake up in a bathtub, with a bright, shiny scar where my kidney is, and only to discover that, Ops, someone stole it. But I never do, and I'm not really sure why I even expect that.  
>Instead, I wake up in a white, bright room that smells like old men. That's the first thing that sucks with this place. The second is the beep. Oh god, the beep. If Bryan wasn't here, I would kill myself, just to get away from the beep.<br>"Hey, how do you feel?"  
>I hate that question. It's the mandatory question that he needs to ask first thing that I wake up, but I hate it. Every time I hear it I just want to scream out loud, throw some cancer in his face, and yell: "How do you think I feel?!".<br>But I never do that. I can't. When I see his grey eyes staring into mine, I immediately melt and feel how the annoyance just slips away. Only to be replaced by guilt.  
>"I'm okay" I mumble, more drugged then I thought, I discover.<br>"It's the third one this week" he respons. "And it's only Thursday. Don't you think you should…"  
>Either he's to weak, or to afraid, to say it. He knows that I hate when he suggests that I should move to the hospital, the place that I despise. And I know that he can't stand thinking about the fact that I'm slowly ripping myself apart from the inside, that each second I'm loosing a part of myself.<br>"Bryan" I say, with all the energy I have. "Shut. Up."  
>Of course he doesn't. Instead, he starts his regular hospital monologue. By the time a nurse has come to check on me, he's not even halfway through. Poor thing, never gets to finish his speech.<br>"So how are we doing?" the nurse asks.  
>Again. Scream, cancer, throw it, yell. But I skip that this time as well.<br>"About as bad as I did when I finished watching Breaking Bad. Cried for hours after the last episode."  
>Bryan gives me a annoyed glance, but he doesn't say anything. The nurse just smiles politely, and starts talking about all the things I've been through the last 12 hours. To summarize it: My lungs still suck, cancer gave them a really hard time last night, if I stay hooked up to this machine I won't die in the next 24 hours, I should be fine, or as I like to call it; back to dying in a few years. Glorious.<br>"Why do you do this?"  
>Bryans voice echoes through my head while I try to make up a reasonable answer. I know what he means, and he knows that I know what he means. As usual, I don't find a reasonable answer though. Not reasonable to him anyway.<br>The real answer is because I want to die. I'm supposed to die, so why not? Why not wait to call him until the last minute, so that he just might come home to a dead me?  
>It's cruel, I know. But every time I sit there, panting for breath, crying through the pain, it sounds as a relief. Since it means that I won't have to deal with the pain anymore, and he won't have to deal with me anymore. Problem solved.<br>"I don't know" I say. "Why…"  
>I try to come up with a clever come-back, something that will shut him up. But right now, I can't.<br>"Do you hate me?"  
>Well, that's a new one. I try not to look so chocked when I answer: "You're stupid. But no, I don't hate you, and you know that. I just hate when you steal the remote and…"<br>"When are you going to stop treating this as a joke?" Bryan looks right into my eyes, and as much as I want to look away, I can't. "Cause I'm just sitting here, waiting for it to happen. Waiting for you to realize that this is real, that you might die."  
>"Oh like I haven't realized…"<br>"You haven't realized anything." There is some unfamiliar emotion in his eyes, but I can't really put my finger on what it is. All I know is that I hate it. "You haven't accepted a single damn thing, and you refuse to see that this affects other people as well. You just choose to deal with this as a joke, because you're to much of a coward to accept that you are going through hell, and that you might never get back to earth."  
>I'm not chocked by the words. Surprised, maybe, but mostly saddened. A huge layer of sadness just flushes over me when I hear him talk. Of course he's right. He's right about everything, I can't deny that. And I don't want anything more then to apologize to all the people who's lives I've screwed up, who's emotions I've been playing with. Especially Bryans.<br>But I can't. Instead, I just let his words sink in, and look away while asking: "How was work?"


End file.
